


Watching Over Him

by Libbyfay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Being an Idiot, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Getting Together, Humor, Investigations, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Marathon Fretting, Mind Your Blood Sugar, PWP without Porn, Pastries, Plot What Plot/Puttering Without Plot, Post-Canon, Projecting Onto Plants, Quote: Ngk (Good Omens), Realization, Reminiscing, Snooping, Sort Of, Temptation, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Worry, You Might Need Insulin After This, can be read as asexual, wondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds/Libbyfay
Summary: This was apparently one of those sleeps.  Aziraphale hated those sleeps, because one never knew how long they’d last.  He would only find out about them later on, after he’d sat around, lonely and miffed for weeks or years or decades.He wondered whether his presence was an intrusion, a violation of Crowley’s privacy.  But this time, they’d had plans!  Also, Aziraphale had just worn Crowley’s body for almost a full day, which had been rather… intimate.  So, in that light, he felt somewhat justified barging in.  Now, he was standing in Crowley’s private sanctuary, watching him sleep.He should go.Crowley was so lovely.He should definitely go.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this purely to comfort myself, and I published because we all need a giggle right now. Yep, that’s what this is: the conceit of a 15,000-word giggle… plus a cuddle.
> 
> Several "historical" references and various mementos are explained further in my other fics, and a couple by [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose). This one story allowed me to tie many things together.

During their lunch at the Ritz… Was it lunch? Well, it had started out as lunch, but it went on so long and included so many courses, that it essentially became dinner. 

Well, during their late lunch at the Ritz, Aziraphale made what he considered to be a decisive move. First, he set the stage by gazing adoringly, but that was nothing new. Then, he boldly placed his left hand on the table-top, nearer to Crowley’s place-setting than his own. The invitation, he felt, was obvious. When this had no effect, Aziraphale went all the way, turning his hand palm up and looking pleadingly into Crowley’s glasses. 

He could feel rather than see Crowley’s eyes narrow in confusion. He looked down at Aziraphale’s open hand, and then back up at his face. With a hopeful little smile, Aziraphale wiggled his fingers meaningfully. Crowley was dumbfounded for a moment. Then, glancing quickly around the table, he uttered a knowing, “Ah.”

Crowley reached over, grabbed a bread roll from the basket and dropped it in Aziraphale’s open hand. The conversation continued seamlessly, as if the silent request for bread had never happened.

After the Ritz, Crowley walked Aziraphale home and listened. 

Aziraphale wanted to talk. Well, in fact, he wanted closeness, and talking was the only mechanism they had. It’s what they’d done for ages, and now faced with the prospect of eons more friendship, unfettered and unobserved, the only thing Aziraphale could think to do was talk… more. So, he poured his misplaced desire to hold Crowley’s hand into chatting instead. 

He had many insightful observations about Hell and its denizens, and these frequently got a chuckle out of Crowley. The demon did not reciprocate with tales about his time in Heaven, and Aziraphale understood that Crowley’s observations were likely to come off more homicidal than humorous. 

Aziraphale reflected on their new human friends. Well, mostly human, as he was unsure whether Adam qualified. It seemed to him, that they were sort of godfathers again, which was nice. They had lots of practice being godfathers, and they were rather good at. “Wouldn’t you say, dear?” Crowley seemed uncomfortable, so Aziraphale changed the subject.

Aziraphale had been charmed by Newt and Anathema, and he asked Crowley whether he thought the relationship would last beyond the crisis of Armageddon. 

“If that guy has any sense, he won’t let her out of his sight till the wedding.”

“Oh, do you think there’ll be a wedding?” Aziraphale crooned. “You and I should go then, since we were there the day they met.”

The angel brushed the back of his hand against Crowley’s fingers. Crowley didn’t respond, didn’t react, didn’t reach out or pull away. He just kept walking, staring straight ahead. Maybe demons didn’t enjoy weddings. Weddings were probably far too _nice_ for his taste. He couldn’t envision Crowley slow dancing with him in a ballroom full of flowers. Well, actually, he could envision it, certainly, but it probably wasn’t the demon’s style.

Aziraphale withdrew and clasped his hands safely in front of him.

They took the long way back to the bookshop. Without discussing it, their steps took them through the park as the shadows grew long in the late afternoon sun. They stopped at their usual spot, and Aziraphale thought about the many times they’d stood here: the times they’d challenged each other, the times they’d found each other again after a long absence, the times they’d fought, the times he’d denied…

“We’ve been through so-“

“The ducks are still here!” Crowley interrupted, amazement in his voice.

Aziraphale swallowed whatever maudlin comment he’d been about to make. “I’m so glad.” He said instead, and then, cautiously, “And ever so glad… that you’re still here to make fun of them.” Aziraphale was forced to squint in the golden light, and he wondered how the demon’s sensitive eyes were faring. The glasses probably helped, but then he watched as Crowley raised them a bit to rub his eyes. 

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Headache.” Crowley admitted, dropping his glasses back into place. “I’m just tired, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, “And the sun reflecting off the water is so bright.”

“Radiant.” Crowley agreed, and then turned to look directly at him.

Aziraphale felt suddenly wrong-footed, and he tightened his hands nervously on the wrought iron fence before them. The word hung there, and he wondered whether Crowley would reach across and somehow bridge the gap between them. But maybe that’s not what the demon wanted, after all. After a moment, Aziraphale looked determinedly away, out at the ducks, floating slowly on the surface of the water.

Crowley sighed. “So, turn down the halo, why don’t you? Before we all go blind.” And, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, Crowley began strolling again, out of the empty park.

In a few quick steps, Aziraphale caught up with him and immediately switched topics. He thought it was high time to applaud Crowley’s bravery and quick thinking during the aborted-Apocalypse. He recounted his friend’s daring deeds, in so far as he’d witnessed them, making a special point to appreciate the Bentley’s sacrifice as well. (He assured Crowley that he’d find his brave car parked safely in front of his flat when he got home.) Crowley’s last-ditch idea to stop time had been a stroke of genius, and Aziraphale took great pleasure in describing how heroic Crowley had looked, wielding a tire iron against Satan Himself. 

“You weren’t so bad yourself, angel.” What might have been faint praise from anyone else, was positively gushing with admiration when you considered the source.

When they finally reached the bookshop, they stood side by side on the street gazing happily at the front door. 

“Oh, Crowley. I’m so glad to be home!”

“It’s like none of it even happened,” Crowley mused. “I guess I’m the only one who’ll even remember…”

“Maybe it will fade in time, like a bad dream.” Aziraphale offered. “Come on in!” He hurried to the door, unlocked it and opened it wide, looking expectantly over his shoulder. The demon remained on the pavement. 

Aziraphale looked puzzled. “Won’t you come in?” he asked, warmly.

Crowley shuffled his feet. “Better not.”

“Of course, you should! I’ll open whatever wine you’d like best.”

“Angel, I’d like that, really. But… I’m just so damn _tired_.”

“Oh.” He deflated. Aziraphale realized then, that as happy as he was to be home, a good portion of his delight had come from the thought of going in together and looking over everything anew, with Crowley in tow. 

“I’m sorry.” Crowley did seem to be sagging, his shoulders slumped. “It’s just been hitting me as we walked along. I think I need to get back to my flat and get some sleep.”

“Well, if you must. I _had_ hoped…” Aziraphale looked down at his shoes. Now, all of the sudden, Crowley was the one slowing down. Fast or slow, Aziraphale realized that he didn’t really care anymore. He just wanted Crowley nearby. 

Some of this must have shown on the angel’s face, because Crowley asked, “Are you gonna be ok?”

Aziraphale shook himself. “Oh, how selfish of me! Of course I’ll be alright.” He stepped back toward Crowley, and instead of squeezing his hand, he patted his friend quickly on the arm. “You’ve been through a lot. And even though you can obviously _survive_ hell-fire… being roasted twice in as many days has probably taken it out of you!” One more awkward pat, just below his shoulder, for good measure.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, vaguely, and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“Maybe… tomorrow?” As soon as he said it, Aziraphale chided himself for being too pushy. Clingy. It used to be decades between meals shared.

“Sure. I’ll be better company by then. Dinner? I’ll come by at, say, six?”

Aziraphale brightened, “Perfect. Then, drinks till whenever!”

“That’ll be lovely.” Crowley’s lips twitched through a few different vague emotions. “G’night, angel.”

There was a long pause. Aziraphale’s hand lingered on Crowley’s sleeve. He leaned just a little bit closer. 

Crowley was looking down at Aziraphale’s lips. Like an inexpert dancer spotting at the ground, it seemed he couldn’t help but lean in the direction his eyes were leading. Suddenly, the demon shook himself and seemed startled to find himself more than half-way to the forbidden fruit.

He straightened up quickly, mumbling something that could have been an apology, and strode out into the middle of the street. Crowley hailed an oncoming taxi by standing right in front of it, so the driver had no choice but to stop or run him over. The driver honked and made a rude noise, so Crowley made a much ruder one, then got in.

Aziraphale stared down the street after him for a long time, his heart fluttering around in his chest, bouncing between confusion, disappointment and the thrill of realizing they’d been about to kiss. They _had_ been, he was almost certain of it. 

But for some reason, Crowley had thought better of it. Or he was scared. Or Aziraphale had been talking too much the whole afternoon, and it had just worn Crowley out. Or Aziraphale had pushed him away… one too many times. Or maybe Crowley just hadn’t wanted to. Maybe he’d prefer things stay as they were.

Aziraphale went slowly inside and tried to take some consolation from his little nest. He wasn’t starving for company. He reminded himself that the bookshop was full to the brim with beloved authors and the words of old friends, most of them long-gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale had been dressing for the better part of the afternoon. An outside observer might have said that all his outfits looked very similar. However, that outside observer would have been an uncouth, vulgar cretin. 

The coat was Aziraphale’s unwavering standard, of course. But the shirt, tie and shoes were the wild cards, and there were a seemingly infinite number of combinations to try. 

As he dressed, he mused anxiously. Sometimes, Aziraphale thought he knew what Crowley wanted, but he had to admit that, even after all this time, he wasn’t really certain. It was all guesses, based solely on circumstantial evidence. He’d look at it one way, and it seemed so obvious. Then he’d tilt his head a bit, look at it another way, and it seemed absurd. 

Like right now, for instance. Looking at his own corporation in the mirror, it seemed pretty absurd. His outfit probably wasn’t going to make much of a difference on that score. 

On the other hand, Crowley’s _body_ had pretty clearly wanted something. And feeling that hunger from the inside had been an enlightening experience. He’d felt positively starved, jittery and strung as tight as a bow string. 

Low blood sugar. That had been Aziraphale’s first thought. He’d been about to stuff Crowley’s face with whatever food he could find, when he realized it was more than that. The need was very private and not something Aziraphale could have gentled without an Effort. He reminded himself that this was just a test-drive, and it wasn’t Aziraphale’s place to go fiddling with the engine. If Crowley wanted to run his body that close to the edge, with the fuel light blinking, who was he to argue? The sensation of it, though unpleasant, had probably helped make his performance in Hell all the more believable. 

But, back in his own body now, Aziraphale couldn’t quite shake the feeling. A little of that nervous desperation teased the back of his mind. Physical contact would help. Holding on to each other very, very tightly would help, and at this point, there was no reason not to. Aziraphale knew that Crowley’s corporation would have been in favor of that. But he reminded himself, that was cheating. He had stolen knowledge of Crowley’s body that the demon wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know and certainly wouldn’t want anyone to fix. 

Crowley didn’t much listen to his own body’s opinions, so the question remained, what did Crowley, himself, want? 

Frustrated, Aziraphale threw the blue shirt aside and began investigating combinations based around the light purple one. 

It was far easier to catalog his own feelings than to guess at another’s. His own feelings were pretty well known to him at this point. When Crowley wasn’t there, Aziraphale felt empty. When they were together, Aziraphale was happy. Simple.

He’d be happier still if they could, perhaps, sit closer together, instead of on opposite sides of the bench. He’d always hated bench-distance. He wasn’t sure what there was for them besides that, though. He would hug Crowley. Definitely, that. It would probably take both arms and legs as well as a good deal of body weight to settle the poor demon’s nerves. 

And after that…

Aziraphale threw up his hands. 

The yellow in that tie was awful! Aziraphale undid another failed bowtie and threw it to the floor.

All those years spent hiding from their superiors meant they were also very good at hiding from each other. Don’t let your gaze linger too long. All the years of plausible deniability made it hard to tell what either of them really wanted. Don’t sit too near. All the tiny moments of connection, severed at the last second, to be turned into a joke or a platitude. Don’t let your hands betray you. 

Neither of them could admit their true feelings, even to themselves, lest it show in their eyes someday and damn them both. Friendship itself was an enormous risk, and friends don’t let friends get tortured for fraternizing. 

But with that risk out of the way, a very different question was rearing its head. What did Crowley _really_ want? 

What, for that matter, did Aziraphale want? 

Answer: Better tie choices.

In the end, at ten minutes to six, he had to just bite the bullet and pick one. He went for the colors he liked best. Lavender shirt, purple and rose tartan tie, and the rose-gold shoes. But then he thought better of it, and at the last minute swapped the shirt out again, deciding that a plain white one was less ostentatious.

Finally ready, Aziraphale went downstairs to read in his armchair, looking as if he’d been relaxing there, without a care in the world, all afternoon.

Crowley didn’t arrive.

For the first ten minutes, Aziraphale kicked himself for being so damn forward the previous night. Practically begging him to stay, and then “leaning in” like a teenager!

Then, for the next thirty minutes, he searched his soul and did penance for every time he’d ever pushed Crowley away. 

He regretted the time outside of Babylon that he’d shouted and rode away in the cart, leaving Crowley to make his own way home. Then, there was that awful thing he’d said about “fraternizing”. He’d been so distraught that he didn’t recall exactly what he’d said, but he’d never forget Crowley’s expression when he spat the word back at him.

Aziraphale recalled every time he’d disavowed the very fact of their friendship. Most recently, he had said, “I don’t even like you!” But that hadn’t been the only time. He’d said something similar in Egypt, Italy, Boston. In fact, it had happened time and time again. 

In his head, Aziraphale heard Crowley’s cold criticism: _Angel, you know, you’re an awful liar!_ Even his own internal monologue seemed to have taken on the sound of Crowley’s voice over the years.

“Awful as in bad at lying?” He tried to quip back. “Or awful as in lying too damn much?”

 _Both_ , came the reply in Crowley’s grumpiest voice. 

It was no wonder the demon wasn’t interested in a dinner date. It was hard enough just being friends/not-friends with an angel who couldn’t be honest with himself.

Then, Aziraphale switched gears and was violently angry at Crowley for all of three whole minutes. The least he could do was call!

That’s when he realized, with a pang, that Crowley would have called. Crowley was unfailingly considerate. Even if he didn’t want any more from their relationship, he would have called and politely explained that something had come up. Aziraphale gasped, covering his mouth in sudden concern. If only he weren’t so damn self-centered, he’d have realized that he wasn’t being stood up. Something was wrong.

He practically bounded to the phone and dialed Crowley’s number. It went to voice mail.

“Are you ok, you stupid demon? … I - I’m coming over!”

He set the handset back down on the receiver, and a moment later he was standing outside the door to Crowley’s flat. He could have miracled himself to just _inside_ the door, but propriety demanded that he knock at least.

He knocked. He knocked louder. 

He shouted Crowley’s name, then began muttering to himself. “If any one of you… you… have touched one hair on his perfect head, I swear by the Almighty…” He banged with his fist once more and accompanied the blow with a bolt of angelic fury that totaled both the lock and the deadbolt. The door swung open.

Aziraphale stalked through the rooms, looking for Crowley, looking for enemies. He was quite a sight to behold, a perfectly coifed angel radiating divine wrath from his lavender bowtie to his rose-gold shoes. The plants were even more terrified than usual. 

When he entered the bedroom, his heart stopped. Crowley was laying there… Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside the bed. Oh, thank God (or thank Someone, since he was pretty sure God wasn’t involving Herself at this point) Crowley was breathing! He was asleep.

Relief flooded through him, and he dropped his forehead gently against the bed. Crowley didn’t stir. 

The angel blinked away a tear and then looked closely at his friend. Crowley was laying on his stomach, his face smashed to one side. Thank goodness he was wearing black silk pajama bottoms at least, but his torso was bare. His shoulders were so slim, the muscles in his back so wiry that Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking how fragile he looked, how vulnerable he would have been if one of their enemies had actually come for him. 

Aziraphale tried to remind himself that this was the Tempter of Eden, shapeshifter, maker of stars, creator of telemarketing, killer of demons, rescuer of angels in distress. But here he was, with a little pout on his sleeping face, and all the flash had gone out of this flash-bastard.

The fool must have been sleeping since getting home the night before, and he had just slept right through their hastily agreed-upon dinner. He must have been very tired. That actually made sense, given the kind of desperate strain Aziraphale had felt in Crowley’s body. Maybe this was what happened when Crowley’s fuel tank ran all the way to empty. He hadn’t even heard the phone ring or the sound of his door being violently smashed in. 

This was apparently one of _those_ sleeps. 

Aziraphale hated _those_ sleeps, because one never knew how long they’d last. He’d never actually been present for one of _those_ sleeps. He would only find out about them later on, after he’d sat around, lonely and miffed for weeks or years or decades. 

He wondered whether his presence was an intrusion, a violation of Crowley’s privacy. When Crowley went off to sleep, he usually hid and never told anyone where he was. But this time, they’d had plans! This time, when six o’clock had rolled around, Aziraphale had felt it his prerogative to investigate, and this time, he'd known where to look.

It was a coincidence that the angel had stayed over at Crowley’s flat just two nights previously. He felt it empowered him to take certain liberties. Never mind that they hadn’t slept in each other’s presence, or done much of anything, in fact, except talk and plan. But he’d also just worn Crowley’s body for almost a full day, which had been rather… intimate. So, in that light, he felt somewhat justified, barging in. Now, he was standing in Crowley’s private sanctuary, watching him sleep. 

He should go. 

Crowley was so lovely.

He should definitely go.

Aziraphale tiptoed out of the room, retracing his steps. He took stock of the damaged front door and miracled the lock back to rights. Then, before exiting, he added a few more deadbolts and a chain. He closed the door behind himself and gave it a disapproving look. White light glowed around the edges of the door for a moment and disappeared. It wouldn’t stop a determined Archangel of course, but most beings would do everything they could to avoid the flat. 

Aziraphale headed home.  



	3. Chapter 3

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale tried to enjoy the comfort of his private patterns. He made cocoa. He settled down to read in his armchair. It was so quiet. He got back up and put on some music. He selected a different book, but he couldn’t keep his mind on that one either. 

Crowley was sleeping. Maybe Aziraphale should try to sleep. He took off his reading glasses, lay his head back and tried to slow his breathing. That didn’t last long, because instead of feeling restful, his thoughts rampaged around.

All these centuries spent mostly alone, and now he was anxious in solitude. Was it the same for Crowley? Did Crowley even want to be alone? The demon had always made it clear that he liked having Aziraphale around. He’d saved him from discorporation enough times. Crowley had sometimes said, in his tongue-in-cheek way: _Friends don’t let friends get discorporated_. 

So, that meant they were friends for sure. And, Crowley clearly enjoyed his company enough to want to escape the Earth together. But did he still feel that way when Aziraphale had so coldly rejected him… twice?

Well whatever Crowley felt about him, or didn’t, they were on their own side now and safer together. Aziraphale jumped out of the chair, turned off the gramophone and began bustling around. 

He scrawled a curt little note and taped it on the bookshop door: “Closed until further notice. Family matters take precedence.” Since Crowley’s home was rather chilly, he collected a pair of fuzzy slippers from the flat upstairs. Oh, and one mustn’t forget a toothbrush, he went back for that. He stuffed everything in an oversized canvas shopping bag, then added a packet of his favorite biscuits and a few of his favorite books. 

He sat back down in his armchair with the bag on his lap. Taking one last look around, he turned off the little lamp on the side table, before miracling himself, the chair, side table and lamp directly into Crowley’s bedroom. 

Crowley was just where he’d left him, except rolled onto his other side, facing the wall. Aziraphale sighed with the relief of again being near enough to reach out and touch. Of course, he didn’t touch; he just stared at Crowley’s back, watching his shoulder rise and fall with his breath. When he was certain that his sudden arrival hadn’t disturbed Crowley’s sleep, Aziraphale turned on his reading lamp and went back to his book. 

He stayed there all night.

Early in the morning, Aziraphale snuck out of the bedroom. He was hopeful that Crowley might wake up soon. He found tea and coffee in sleek metal canisters on the kitchen counter. He was suspicious of the coffee maker, but Crowley had once patiently taught him how to use the thing. When the coffee smell filled the kitchen, Aziraphale was enormously pleased with himself. He brought two mugs back to the bedroom and placed them on the little table, sweet tea for himself and black coffee for Crowley.

The smell might rouse him. 

Any minute, now.

Crowley’s mobile began blaring and buzzing from where it sat on the nightstand. It was an awful ring tone, obviously selected it to be as annoying as possible to everyone around him. Aziraphale snatched the phone, before it could wake Crowley up, and removed to the throne room. 

The horrible little object continued with its screech-beeping. Since he was unable to figure out how to silence it, Aziraphale pressed the green button and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Crowley?” asked a sweet female voice.

“Actually, this is… his associate. Mr. Crowley is indisposed at the moment; can I help you? Or um, take a message?”

“Sorry to disturb,” she said. “It’s just, Mr. Crowley placed a rather large order, and he never picked it up. I was calling to see if he still wanted his pastries.”

“Pastries?” Aziraphale was intrigued. “And who might I ask is calling?”

“I’m from Maison Bertaux, we’re the patisserie on Greek St.”

“My favorite!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Wait… Is this Jill?”

“Uh, yes.” After a slightly confused pause, she asked, “Do we know each other?”

“Jill, this is Mr. Fell. You know, from down the road-“

“Oh lord, ‘course I know you! Mr. Fell! So nice to hear your voice. And you’re this Mr. Crowley’s associate, are you? Fancy that. Small world.”

“Actually, you’ve met him. I’ve brought him in a few times.”

“Oh my! You mean Tall Dark and Handsome? I didn’t know his name. Of course, yes! Wow. It’s all starting to make sense now.” She giggled at some private joke.

Aziraphale was confused. “What is?”

“Well, do you think your _‘associate’_ still wants his pastries?” Her tone was teasing. “We’ve got some of your favorites in here…”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes to pick up his order.”

“Great. Give us an hour, will you? These were from yesterday, and some off the stuff, like the quiche, is just fine… But for some of these items, we’ll want to pack you up some fresh. I’m not about you give you gentlemen day-olds.”

“Wait, Jill, one more thing. Do you know when Crowley placed this order?”

“Must have been… let’s see, last week some time. For pick up, yesterday.”

“Last week?” he squeaked. As odd as the conversation had already been, this last piece of information caused Aziraphale’s brain to stall out. In the midst of Armageddon, with Hell on his heels, had Crowley really placed an order for pick up immediately _after_ the apocalypse? For baked goods? “Um. Sorry. Fine. Uh. Jolly good. Be over in a jiffy. I mean, an hour. Yes.” 

A few hours later, Aziraphale was back in Crowley's kitchen, staring into three cardboard boxes full of delicious pastries. This order would only exist if they happened to survive Armageddon and if there were still baked goods in existence, or humans for that matter. But Crowley, it seemed, was made of hope. If the world didn’t end, Crowley would have brought these boxes of Aziraphale’s favorite treats over to the bookshop. He’d waltz in, grinning and flirting and doting on Aziraphale, altogether too pleased with his little scheme. 

But instead, Crowley was asleep.

Aziraphale gazed down into three huge boxes containing nearly every item in Maison Bertaux’s extensive selection: eclairs, croissants, macarons, mini-quiches, tarts, marzipan, and God knows what else.

 _Go on, angel,_ said Crowley’s voice in his head. He knew the demon’s signature temptation so well that he could play it in Crowley’s absence. It was a precise sense memory, all the way down to the exact tone, quirk of the lip and all.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a prim little frown. His eyes went to the éclair.

 _The éclair, right? Knew it._ Crowley would have said, having fun with him.

Aziraphale sighed. It would have been fun if Crowley was awake. “I’m not going to.” He said. “These are Crowley’s pastries. I’m looking after them till he wakes up.”

 _But they’re for you._ Crowley’s specter pouted.

“Says, you. We simply will not know for certain, until he wakes up and tells me so himself.”

_I know you. You don’t have enough self-control for this._

“Nonsense.” It just so happened that food was _not_ at the top of Aziraphale’s list; his demon was. He could wait.

Aziraphale shut all three of the boxes and pushed them to the corner of the granite counter space. Then, he enclosed them in a tight bubble of a miracle. A little trick of time and they would stay as fresh as the day they were baked, no matter how long the demon slept.

He turned his attention to the rest of the kitchen. There had to be some other food around. The big modern fridge was full of alcohol; white wines, sherry, port, champagne. Weirdly, there was also a carton of milk in the door and apparently nothing else. Except for the fruit drawer was full of…. apples. Of course. Aziraphale smiled and shook his head. The tempter probably ate apples while lounging in his ridiculous throne.

Apples weren’t what Aziraphale wanted, though. 

_You could use an apple_ , a voice said. It was a familiar voice. _Maybe if you ate something healthy you wouldn’t look like a puff pastry, yourself._ Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped, and he took out an apple and closed the fridge, considering. It had to be a temptation of a kind. A temptation to do what? To dislike himself and punish himself with food he didn’t want? 

_Too many human indulgences and now look at you! This apple’s not forbidden. For you, it’s a necessity._

He feared sometimes that Crowley wouldn’t like the way he looked, but the voice didn’t sound right. There wasn’t a demony-expression anywhere in Aziraphale’s memory to match those words. It sounded more like someone else. He tried to picture the face, condescending, pitying. 

_Loose the gut._

Gabriel! 

That was who was insulting him and trying to get him to eat an apple. The same person who wanted him dead. Crowley had called Gabriel a wanker on many occasions.

“Wanker.” Aziraphale said aloud and put the apple back in the fridge.

The cupboards contained expensive black china, crystal glasses and various kitchen appliances of mysterious intent. When he finally found a shelf with some food, he was delighted. All the foods stashed in this particular cupboard were familiar to Aziraphale. In fact, he realized suddenly, they were all items he’d discussed with Crowley at one time or another. There were TimTams, which he’d once argued were one of the pinnacles of modern civilization. There were Jaffa Cakes, which Aziraphale regularly brought up in conversation, hoping to incite Crowley into a rant about cakes vs. biscuits. Crowley was so adorably proud of his whole taxation thing! He found McVities digestive biscuits (the same variety he’d brought with him when he’d teleported here), rose-flavored Turkish Delight (which he’d often complained had a bad reputation since Lewis), a jar of olives (the exact variety they’d shared in Spain that time), two big packets of macadamia nuts (which Aziraphale always said were a justifiable expense), and a large container of chocolate powder (a twin of the one he had at the bookshop, from which he made them both hot chocolate on rainy afternoons). 

_There you go._ Crowley would have grinned. _Those are for you. The apples… are for me._

The night of the Apoca…not was the first time Aziraphale had ever visited this flat, but Crowley apparently kept a stash of snacks the angel would enjoy. A whole cupboard dedicated to Aziraphale, just in case he ever stopped by. It almost seemed as though Crowley might have… might have wanted him to be here. It was such a kind gesture that Aziraphale felt weak in the knees. 

Low blood sugar, that was it. The olives took care of that, followed by a few pieces of Turkish Delight. Immensely cheered, Aziraphale made himself a shopping list and brought a bag of macadamia nuts along, to tide him over as he headed to the grocery store.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale made himself at home.

He stocked the fridge, which, with some clever reorganization, had room for all of Crowley’s alcohol and enough food for the week. He made himself comfortable at the dining room table, a huge slate-grey stone slab which filled the room just off the kitchen. There, Aziraphale had arranged some of his groceries, books and Crowley’s mail, when he collected it. He added a bouquet of multi-colored snapdragons, in a delicate china vase that he’d miracled from home. And he took liberties with one of the dining room chairs, because sitting on a stylish slab of rock, just wasn’t for him. 

Aziraphale also “moved in” to the spare bathroom, brining over his toiletries and nice-smelling soaps in many colors. The hand towels were now light blue with little seashells on them.

He was less comfortable in the throne room and the long, dimly-lit hallway. When moving through the flat, he trotted down the hall quickly, resolutely not looking at the statuary which was displayed at the far end. He’d suffered a bit of a shock at seeing the statue on the first evening Crowley had invited him over. Since then, Aziraphale had decided that Crowley had an inappropriate sense of humor, and that he was _not_ going to examine the sculpture further. 

_Come on, angel._ Crowley’s teasing voice drifted through his mind. _It’s funny! See, that one is definitely-_

Aziraphale would turn quickly into another room and did not allow Crowley to finish explaining the joke! The angel was a grand master at not looking at things he did not want to see. 

Crowley’s indoor garden was beautiful, and he obviously took great pride in it. Now, Aziraphale felt the plants were under his protection, and he was determined to take the very best care of them that he could. He watered them carefully, but they still seemed stressed. They appeared to tremble slightly, which Aziraphale didn’t think was customary behavior for plants. Maybe, like the Bentley and the bookshop, these plants had been loved so well for so long that they’d absorbed a little sentience. 

The angel assumed (wrongly) that the plants missed their demon’s special attention. He reasoned that Crowley was probably very kind to his plants and knew them all by name. So, Aziraphale duly named them all and gave them each a compliment or a pat on the leaves every day. The poor things didn’t understand where their demon had gone. Aziraphale sympathized. It was hard to be left all alone, when you were used to having your dear, kind, grumpy friend to take care of you.

“You must miss him very much.” He said to the plants. “I know. Me too. He’ll wake up soon. It isn’t personal... I mean, he’s not avoiding you; he’s just very tired. But you must remember that he loves you very much.” Aziraphale swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “Crowley will be so proud of you when he wakes up and sees how much you’ve grown.”

In the mornings, Aziraphale would make himself an egg on toast and a small pot of coffee, enough to get the smell going. Then he’d bring the coffee to Crowley’s bedside and nibble his breakfast while watching the demon for any signs that he might rouse himself. For some reason, Crowley’s “Infernal Times” continued showing up on the doorstep, so Aziraphale dutifully collected it and enjoyed doing the crossword.

After dinner, he’d use the milk Crowley had on-hand to make himself hot chocolate every evening. He could only assume that’s what the milk was there for, anyway. Then, he would settle into his comfy chair and read by lamp light, listening to Crowley breathe and watching over him throughout the night.

For centuries, all Aziraphale had wanted was to be allowed to look at Crowley without interruption or guilt. He’d always rationed himself to surreptitious glances, and he’d felt guilty when his eyes lingered. Now, the angel gazed his fill.

Crowley’s face had been the one constant in Aziraphale’s existence. The demon was an unwavering source of comfort through times of doubt, and Aziraphale had experienced much more doubt than an angel ever should. He had doubted himself, mostly. If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d sometimes doubted Heaven, too. He suspected that Crowley had been aware of his every crisis of faith, but he had always just allowed Aziraphale’s feelings. And when the angel’s doubt was greatest, the demon had been at his gentlest. He supposed that Crowley could have used those opportunities to lure an angel into greater cynicism. Instead, he’d just offered comfort until Aziraphale eventually figured out how to remount his angelic high-horse and ride away. 

It had hurt every single time. It had hurt most the last time, with the end of the world bearing down on them and Aziraphale choosing Heaven over Love. 

Could Crowley ever forgive him? They’d walked into Heaven and Hell, respectively, to protect each other, which seemed a pretty profound gesture of forgiveness. But was there any chance that Crowley would ever want more? Probably not. Maybe it was a good thing the demon was asleep, otherwise he’d never be allowed to stand and gaze. 

One day, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley’s phone had gone black and would not wake up. He knew enough about technology to realize that it must have run out of… electricity? Handling Crowley’s phone calls, mail and plant-care were the angel’s only concrete pretense for hanging around, so he needed to… feed the phone.

He searched all the wall sockets in the flat, hoping to find a cord that might fit, but with no success. Crowley, he knew, had kept the phone by his bed side while he was sleeping, so Aziraphale decided to look there. He knelt down beside the bed and very quietly opened the drawers of the nightstand.

The top drawer contained an empty bottle of whiskey, a tablet of paper and a pen. He closed that one and opened the other. The second drawer was so full of papers that something got stuck and crunched a little as he pulled it. Aziraphale gently pressed the papers down with his finger so the drawer could open. 

On the top, was a playbill for Cats, a performance that Crowley had detested. It was slightly bent from the drawer. As Aziraphale smoothed the glossy paper, he wondered why Crowley kept a memento from a musical he lampooned so loudly at every opportunity. 

Beneath, was a playbill from Into the Woods, by Sondheim, whose music Crowley had argued was worth saving the world for. They had done it; they’d saved the world. Maybe they ought to find a performance of Sondheim somewhere to celebrate. That is, Aziraphale frowned, if Crowley still wanted to go to the theatre together. With no Arrangement or understanding between them anymore…

Next, he uncovered a playbill from a modern production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. They’d seen that here in London in the 1970’s. The costumes and the set design had been rather science-fiction for Aziraphale’s taste. 

Below that, Madame Butterfly. They’d gone to Venice to see that one. Crowley had cried. Aziraphale checked the date: 1958.

A much less glossy playbill for The Pirates of Penzance, one of the first shows they’d seen together after the second World War, once they were back in each other’s lives. Since then, a very drunk angel and demon had, from time to time, sung very bad renditions of Gilbert and Sullivan. Aziraphale looked over at Crowley’s sleeping form, huddled in a ball with his back to him. He suddenly missed the demon’s expressive face and not-entirely-terrible singing voice. 

All Aziraphale wanted in that moment was for Crowley to wake up. 

He stared. The demon did not wake up.

He turned back to the drawer, skimming through the last few inches of papers. Deeper into the pile were black and white pages, seemingly run-off from early printing presses. Some had obviously been advertisements and posters which Crowley had taken off of walls and made into keepsakes. 

One sheet was in Russian, a ballet. Aziraphale couldn’t recall the date, early 1800’s maybe, but he did remember the freezing cold and Crowley putting his coat over his shoulders as they walked back.

Aziraphale sat back on his heels and regarded the evidence. Crowley had kept mementos of all the performances they’d attended together over the last two hundred years. That seemed rather sentimental, for a demon. It was almost as if he had enjoyed those evenings as much as Aziraphale had. But what motivation could have possessed Crowley to keep showing back up with yet another pair of tickets? Could it have been nothing more than boredom or a masochistic streak that made Crowley enjoy being scolded by a holier-than-thou angel? 

This was intolerable! Apparently, Crowley planned to sleep through all of Aziraphale’s questions. In that moment, it seemed like the coward was just avoiding having this conversation with him! More research was clearly warranted, and if the fiend was just going to lay there, Aziraphale would take matters into his own hands.

Distractedly, he returned the playbills to the drawer and began contemplating where he would look next. 

Then he noticed the phone again. Maybe it didn’t need a cord, like the Bentley didn’t need petrol, so Aziraphale tried Crowley’s trick of expecting the phone to work. It lit up, just as he slipped it back into his pocket.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale felt decidedly wicked as he prowled around Crowley’s flat.

He really shouldn’t nose around when he hadn’t been invited here in the first place, but that wasn’t about to stop him. He experienced the kind of guilty thrill he’d often gotten from the Arrangement: faced flushed, hands cold, and oh so naughty! If Crowley insisted on sleeping while Aziraphale went quietly mad, then it served him right. Aziraphale was a capable angel, and if he could navigate court intrigue in the 1700’s, he could certainly investigate this himself. 

Crowley’s flat was sparsely decorated, but the few possessions he did have seemed to carry significance and meaning. Now that he was looking with the right mindset, the first evidence could be right out there in the open. (Aziraphale was still resolutely not looking at the wrestling-angels statue. It was in such poor taste.) 

However, the stone eagle with outstretched wings had seemed important. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Now, Aziraphale stood, staring at it and wondering where he’d seen it before. It didn’t look like an art piece intended for the home. It looked like it belonged in a gothic church. Why ever would Crowley have been in a church?

“Oh.” That night. 

That night had meant the world to Aziraphale. It was the precise moment he’d begun to hope. That night, he’d begun to hope that maybe a demon could feel love. And he’d hoped that maybe, somehow, angels could have free will. It was a night of momentous importance. But… important only to Aziraphale, or so he’d thought. 

They had never spoken about it again. Crowley had enough tact to avoid reminding Aziraphale of his humiliating foray into espionage. Aziraphale didn’t believe that the moment could have meant as much to Crowley. Or at least, it couldn’t mean more than any of the other times he’d saved the angel’s foolish hide. Yet, here was proof that the demon had never forgotten. Aziraphale reached out and touched the statue. Even he could sense the slight holiness of the object, and he wondered whether it had burned Crowley’s hands getting it here. 

Crowley kept things. And the things he kept had meaning, even if they were painful.

Aziraphale continued his search.

In one of the kitchen drawers, he unearthed a zip-lock bag full of fortune-cookie fortunes. Crowley never ate much on his own, but the two of them had ordered take-out Chinese food more times than Aziraphale could count. These were the receipts of every single meal, and there were an inordinate number of them. He pulled out a slip of paper at random. “A faithful friend is a strong defense.” That had certainly panned out. And another, “A soft voice may be awfully persuasive.” 

_Do it. Don’t be such a prude. Read it out loud. C’mon!_

“Patience is your greatest ally.” He smiled, and then added, “...in bed.” He recalled Crowley teaching him to do that with every fortune. As genderless, sexless beings who were also quite drunk at the time, it had struck them both as extremely funny.

The huge ornate desk seemed like another promising place to look. In the desk, Aziraphale found a stash of bills and parking tickets that Crowley was ignoring. The angel pulled those out and tossed them on the floor. He was about to rummage deeper into the desk, but then he straightened and pointed a commanding finger at the pile. Each paper was now stamped PAID, and they had sorted themselves into a neat stack in chronological order. He turned back to the desk and pulled out the drawer. He’d used a little too much force and stumbled when it came free of its runners. Placing the drawer on top of the desk, he felt for the seams. They had to be there because he certainly had them in his _own_ desk drawers. 

Suddenly, Crowley’s mobile began blaring insistently. Damn. Snooping would have to wait, as he was also Crowley’s answering service. Aziraphale pulled the phone from his pocket, and he was stunned to see the name and photo that appeared on the screen: Warlock. 

As strange as it was to receive a call from Warlock on Crowley’s phone, Aziraphale answered quickly. He missed his young charge. “Hello?” 

“Um. Nanny?”

Aziraphale slipped easily into his gardener’s accent. “Hello, dear boy! No, I’m afraid this isn’t your Nanny. It’s me… Brother Francis.”

“Brother Francis? What’re you doing there? I was calling for…” Warlock paused, the wheels of his mind spinning, furiously. Then, “I KNEW IT!” he shouted, triumphantly.

“Don’t shout into people’s ears, lad.” Aziraphale chided. “What are you on about?”

Warlock’s words rushed out of him in barely controlled excitement. “You and Nanny! I knew it! You’re together, right? That’s why you’ve got her phone. You left at the same time, but you never said anything. You must think I’m a stupid kid. But I always knew. I knew all along! Is she there? I’m not mad, really. Can I come and stay with you guys?” 

Aziraphale spoke all the more slowly, just to calm the boy down. “Well, of course we’d both like to see you, but I think you’re rather getting ahead of yourself. Your Nanny and I are not _together,_ as you put it. Miss Astoreth is away… on business… and I’m looking after her affairs. Watering her plants. Picking up the mail. You know.”

“And she left her _phone_ with you?”

“Ah… yes, that’s right.”

“Hm.” Warlock sounded skeptical. 

Aziraphale elected to change the subject. “What were you calling for? Perhaps I can be of help.”

“Well. I was just going to tell her something.” He sounded a little self-conscious.

“You can tell me, lad, and I’ll pass it on. Or, if it’s private, I’ll just tell your Nanny that you called.”

Warlock seemed to decide that Brother Francis was almost as good of a recipient for his news. “It’s just, I thought she’d want to know, I got a B on my math test!” 

“Oh! That’s wonderful! Were you struggling? Brought your marks up, did you?”

“It was Nanny, actually. I suck at fractions, but she helped me over the phone. Her tricks really work!”

“She does have clever tricks.” Aziraphale agreed with a smile. “When did you speak with her last?” 

“Last week. She helped me.” Aziraphale wondered if this was before or after Crowley had tried to convince him to kill the boy. “It’s gonna get harder again soon. I’m gonna need her help with _improper fractions_ next. Whatever that means. Are you SURE she isn’t there?”

“No, I’m sorry. Like I said, she’s not here right now. How are your other classes going?”

Warlock mumbled something, but his mouth was too far away from the receiver. 

“Now, Warlock, tell me the truth. How are you doing in school?”

“I got a B in math,” he said a little petulantly.

“What about literature? Are you enjoying English? Reading?”

“It’s boring! All the stuff we read in school is stupid. Not as good as what you and Nanny used to read to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Aziraphale suddenly felt responsible for putting the boy back on the right track. “You’re 11 now, if I’m not mistaken.” (He wasn’t likely to forget the boy’s 11th birthday party any time soon.)

“Yeah.”

“Well there are some wonderful books that I’d like to share with you now that you’re old enough for them.”

“Will you and Nanny pick them out? Good ones?” He sounded excited. Apparently, the boy had more faith in the two them than he had in his teachers.

“Of course, my boy.”

Warlock’s tone changed suddenly. “I miss you two.”

Aziraphale’s heart clinched with guilt. He’d been too preoccupied with the end of the world to realize how the departure of his caregivers must have felt almost as cataclysmic from Warlock’s perspective. “I’m so sorry. We miss you as well. Very much, in fact. You must understand, we’ve been terribly busy. But Nanny is obviously going to keep in touch, and I will too, alright? I’ll pick out some books for you.”

“Brother Francis?”

“Yes, lad?”

“Nanny really likes you. I think so, anyway. And she doesn’t like many people. So, if you aren’t together, you maybe should be! And then I’ll come stay at your house. All summer, if you want.”

Aziraphale sighed. What was he supposed to say to that kind of blind optimism? “We’ll see, lad. We shall see.”

After he hung up with Warlock, Aziraphale was unsettled. There was a fine line between professionally influencing the Antichrist and staying in touch with the godson they’d raised together. There was also, apparently, a blurry line between helping the child with fractions and murdering him in cold blood to save the world. But, on the up-side, Warlock counted as one firm vote for: “Nanny likes you, and you two should be together.” 

_You’re gonna let a kid decide that for you?_

“I think that kid may understand some things better than either of us.”

_Think we raised him right? I mean, wrong… or… weird? Whatever._

“Definitely, my dear.”


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale helped himself to Crowley’s scotch to settle his nerves, before continuing with his search. He returned to the desk drawers because he didn’t for a minute believe that all they contained were parking tickets. 

It was just a matter of finding the gap... Ah, there! He lifted the false bottom away. 

He’d uncovered a small, early edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets and a folio of parchment in floppy leather binding. Crowley maintained that he didn’t read books, and there were no books in his flat, except here, secreted away. But that wasn’t why Aziraphale’s hands flew to his heart at this discovery. The folio was a priceless 15th century manuscript of the Canterbury Tales, and he recognized it.

The Canterbury Tales had been a gift to a very depressed demon of his particular acquaintance. The 14th century had felt like a trial run for the apocalypse, as Pestilence, Famine and War had made the demon’s usual mischief rather obsolete. Aziraphale had given him the book because, well, because he’d had nothing of his own to give. Human words, human art, had been the only things they could share between them. The irreverent and ribald humor had cheered Crowley up. He’d laughed, saying that nothing could kindle the spirit like a well-timed fart joke. Art, carnal and profane, elevated and divine, had brought them back together when the world had seemed bleak. 

And while Crowley’s spirit seemed to shine through most of the tales, Aziraphale had admitted the part he’d played in some of their darker moments. He’d had the demon’s sympathy. They had saved each other, time and time again, passing the debt back and forth until neither could remember the score.

_I’ll keep the book, angel. And think of you when I read it._

Crowley had kept it in pristine condition all these years. Here it sat, in a drawer with Will’s love poems. Aziraphale sniffed and swiped at a tear that threatened to fall. 

As he lifted the manuscript out of drawer, he spared an absent-minded preservation miracle, second nature to him whenever handling old parchment. Leaving the manuscript and the sonnets out on the desk, he put everything else back and then continued prowling with, if anything, greater resolve. 

The Mona Lisa with her smug little smile. What was she hiding? 

That’s when he uncovered the safe. Aziraphale was on a roll, and he wasn’t about to let a complex lock interfere with his investigation. His first miracle did nothing. Crowley must have also put a ward in place. It was a good thing they’d shared trade secrets over the years, as part of the Arrangement. Aziraphale tried all the tricks he knew, as well as all the tricks Crowley had come up with and then boasted about over the years. Half an hour later, the safe opened with a click. 

He removed a nondescript wooden box and without hesitation, eagerly opened it.

His first glimpse inside made Aziraphale’s knees wobble, and he leaned into the wall. With a click of his fingers, the throne scooted quickly across the room toward him, and he sat down heavily, the box in his lap. 

He stared down at the contents. There were several items inside. Off to one side, was a tiny, paper Christmas angel. It was made from carefully curled strips of writing paper, affixed to a body like an upside-down ice cream cone. Crowley wasn’t one to decorate for Christmas, but it was the right size to top one of bookshop’s first little Christmas trees. It was an odd thing for a demon to have secreted away. 

Next to the ornament, on top of several other papers, was something impossible that Aziraphale didn’t understand: a perfect white angel feather. It could be nothing else, but. No earthly bird had feathers like that, and there was an almost palpable Grace radiating from it. Why did Crowley have such a thing in his possession? Could it be his own, from before he Fell? Crowley never talked about the Fall. Aziraphale hesitated. If this was Crowley’s own feather, there could be no greater intrusion. 

Crowley had called him a bastard. He certainly was that. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Aziraphale gently lifted the feather out of the way, sitting it in the upturned lid, so that he could see what lay beneath. Under the feather was a folded handkerchief, probably Edwardian era or earlier. It was yellowing with age and embroidered with an ornate “A” in silver thread. 

Moving the handkerchief to the lid as well, he found a glossy photograph of two figures taken from quite a distance away. The photo seemed to have been taken in a garden, with the late afternoon light shining gold and amber over the scene. The taller figure, in shapeless robes was leaning over, talking to a child. The angel recognized young Warlock right away, but it took him a few moments to realize that the man was probably himself. Aziraphale frowned, wondering why someone would keep a photo of a dumpy old man and a perfectly ordinary boy who was not-the-antichrist. When had Miss Astoreth taken that picture?

The items in the box weren’t arranged in chronological order, or more likely, they were rearranged randomly whenever Crowley had an inclination to look through them. Under the photo of Brother Francis and Warlock, he found an ancient piece of parchment. His own precise handwriting was just visible there, faded with time but still legible.

_Dearest,_

_I hope this finds you well. I find myself wishing I could have stayed longer to see you safe and a bit more sober._

_Did you leave Spain behind, as we’d agreed? I would be very displeased to discover that you are still there, torturing yourself over things that are not your fault._

_Fearing that you were, perhaps, too drunk to recall our conversation, I want to reiterate two things. First, that the world would be a sorrier place without you in it. Second, that my own existence would be emptier without you to thwart._

_In case of Arrangement-related needs, you can find me in St. Petersburg for the next six months, at least._

_A._

_(Please do me the favor of burning this letter in infernal fire!)_

Crowley, apparently, had not granted the favor, but at least he’d kept the incriminating document carefully hidden.

Aziraphale had not forgotten Spain, but he had completely forgotten writing such a letter. He ran his fingers across the second point; “my own existence would be emptier…” He didn’t think that he’d ever expressed that sentiment so clearly. 

Well, how could Crowley claim to be in any doubt about his feelings? He’d very nearly professed his undying love! Well, he’d at least admitted to not wanting to live without his counterpart. Except, that Aziraphale had then asked the evidence be burned and had promptly forgotten ever having said it. After writing this letter, how many times had Aziraphale subsequently disavowed their relationship entirely? No wonder Crowley had kept the letter as a talisman against years of contradiction. 

Below that, was a polaroid photograph of the two of them!

Aziraphale’s immediate instinct was fury. He’d always been careful to ensure that no one ever captured them on film together. They’d agreed to be careful! The contents of the box was already enough to get Crowley punished for eternity if any one of these artifacts had ever come to light. If they hadn’t already just survived their own executions, it would have been up to Aziraphale to punish the fool demon, himself. 

The photo had been taken in the 70’s judging by Crowley’s frankly ridiculous moustache, and the angle of the shot was so close that their faces filled the entire frame. Was this what people called a “selfie”? That sounded right, and Crowley had boasted that “selfies” were one of his. Perhaps this was the first of its kind. 

Crowley was looking altogether too pleased with himself, smiling shamelessly at the camera. Aziraphale seemed oblivious to the fact that a picture was being taken. He was gazing at Crowley’s profile, a besotted little grin on his face. Did he always wear such an expression when looking at Crowley? The angel swallowed his embarrassment. Yes, he suspected it was quite a common expression for him. But to be caught-out gazing that like that... And in his blind fondness, Aziraphale had missed the fact that Crowley had taken an altogether forbidden photograph.

Lastly, there was a rough-hewn wooden button in the corner of the box. It was impossible to judge the age of it, but it could have been hundreds or thousands of years old. Aziraphale had no recollection of the button, but he’d probably worn many like it. Since it appeared here, among Crowley’s other treasures, it must have had a story. 

The box contained, if not the whole of their relationship, a lot. Of something. Something that definitely shouldn’t be. If Hell had ever come across this! Aziraphale felt a familiar terror, that his presence, his proximity, his fingerprints on everything in Crowley’s life would lead to his destruction. Reckless. They’d both been so reckless! What could the demon have been thinking to collect so much evidence in one place? 

Aziraphale knew he was avoiding the issue. What could Crowley have been thinking? That question was more important than all his misplaced fear. What had Crowley been thinking as he collected these mementos, or as he handled them over the years? He could picture the demon sitting here, in this very chair, looking through this box. In his mind’s eye, Crowley looked sad. 

A deep furrow was carved between Aziraphale’s brows as he began setting the pieces reverently back into the box, in reverse order. Finally, he came back again to the feather, which he now considered with fresh eyes. Everything in this box had one thing in common. 

It had to be his own feather. 

The rest of the items were from discernable points along their shared history. But, Aziraphale had lived as a human for six thousand years. He’d taken his under-cover assignment seriously, and he wasn’t prone to dropping feathers here and there across the earthly plain. To his knowledge, he hadn’t unfurled his wings in anyone else’s presence. Not even Crowley had seen his wings since… since… maybe since the Garden, actually. Had he let it fall in the Garden somewhere? Had Crowley stolen this from him, way back then? 

He recalled the demon’s glowing eyes when Aziraphale had admitted to his first transgression. (The first of many, as it would turn out.) Aziraphale had been fretful. Crowley had been… smitten. So smitten that he’d somehow gotten a hold of a feather and kept it all these years?

Aziraphale held up the ancient feather and ran his fingers along the outer edge. Crowley might have done the same, God knows how many times. Chills coursed through him, and he could almost feel Crowley’s fingers whispering through his wings. Aziraphale dropped his head back against the throne and drew a ragged breath. All these years, his demon had been petting this single feather, while Aziraphale spent the nights alone, holed up with the cold comfort of his faith. 

If only he’d known.

_You did know._ Said Crowley’s voice in his head. _I told you. So many times._

“I didn’t know!” Aziraphale insisted. 

_Then, you’re an idiot._ The voice said gently.

“What would have happened if we’d… if I had…”

_God only knows, angel. But at least I had this._ He indicated the box.

“What do you WANT from me, Crowley?”

The demon in his head shrugged this off, as if to say that it doesn’t matter what demons want.

Aziraphale lay the feather back in its place and gently closed the box. He shut the now-empty safe, not bothering to reengage the mechanism and carefully replaced the Mona Lisa. Aziraphale was loathe to hide anything away again, so he placed the box right there in the open on Crowley’s desk, next to the sonnets.

He drifted back to the bedroom, to watch his beloved sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale wasn’t dozing off, certainly not. He was just floating a bit, as the words he read were floating through his mind without really connecting. Words were nice. His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment.

“Aziraphale!”

The angel jerked to attention and stared, wide eyed, at the bed. The demon looked the same as always, except for a faint scowl on his sleeping face.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale answered him, quietly.

There was no response, and then after a moment, Crowley tossed his head. He squirmed a little in the sheets, giving the impression that he struggled against a weight that was holding him down. Filled with worry, Aziraphale came to kneel at the bedside and studied Crowley closely. 

“Are you awake?” the angel whispered. No, Crowley wasn’t awake, but he spoke again.

“’ziraphale… Where?”

“I’m here.” 

“No.” Crowley muttered, and his breath became labored as he struggled against something unseen. “Where the Heaven are you? I’ll find you! You… idiot.” That last word was muffled in the pillows. 

Aziraphale was thoroughly out of his depth. He, himself, had only slept a handful of times, and he’d only dreamed once. That dream had been an entirely different experience from this. He’d actually been with Crowley that time, but now his demon was apparently alone in a place where Aziraphale couldn’t follow. He wanted to touch him, but he wasn’t sure if waking him was the right thing to do. 

“It’s ok. You’re ok.” He consoled, but Crowley did not seem to hear.

“You’ve gone!” This exclamation actually came out as a sob. The tears that squeezed out onto his pillow made Aziraphale’s own eyes burn in sympathy. 

But he hadn’t gone! He’d stayed! He’d stayed in Crowley’s flat and looked after him. If Crowley thought Aziraphale was going anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. As Crowley wept in his sleep, a firm resolve coalesced inside the angel. 

“Oh, for goodness sake!” he muttered under his breath, as he got to his feet. He wasn’t sure where the certainty came from, but it was absolute. With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale changed into a nightgown. He looked down at the long, prudish, Victorian garment and then snapped again. Now, he was wearing white silk pajama bottoms that were the mirror of Crowley’s, and his chest was bare. 

Aziraphale crept to the other side of the bed and pulled back the dark sheets. He slipped into Crowley’s bed smoothly, easily, as if he’d done it a million times before. He slid one arm under the pillow at Crowley’s neck and would have spooned up against his back, but Crowley tossed in his sleep and rolled eagerly into Aziraphale’s arms. It was the easiest thing in the world. 

Crowley burrowed against Aziraphale’s chest as he sniffled and shuddered, somewhere between sleep and waking. 

“I’m here. I’m right here.” He gathered Crowley close. He’d wanted this for so long. “Is this… what you want, love?”

“Want.” The answer was barely audible. “You.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let that truth make its way down through his ribs, into his heart. He stayed quiet as tears of relief rolled down his cheeks into Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale ran his fingers slowly over the demon’s shoulders and thought about each of the rare and precious times they’d touched. Each time, he had walled his heart away. But this time, he was finally safe and wanted. 

Crowley’s breathing began to even out, and Aziraphale sighed as a feeling of contentment, stronger than any he had ever known, seemed to flow between them.


	8. Chapter 8

As Crowley resurfaced slowly, he sensed an absence. Something was missing.

He stretched his limbs across the empty expanse of bed. In all his long years, he’d never woken up next to anyone else, so nothing should have felt strange about that. Still, he moaned a little with the sense of loss. He must have been dreaming. Likely, dreaming of Aziraphale, as usual. Crowley tried to drift, hoping to recapture whatever dream he’d been having, but it only slipped further away. 

Without opening his eyes, he tasted the air. Rolling toward the other side of the bed, he gathered the farthest pillows and buried his face in them. There was a scent of cedar and sugar cookies… angel!

Crowley leapt out of bed as if he’d been electrocuted, feet hitting the floor before he was fully awake. As he lunged across his bedroom, he collided with something that shouldn’t have been there. His shin made contact with a large wing-backed chair which scraped across the floor as he stumbled loudly and grasped it for support. He blinked at the hideous floral cushions under his hands. This was Aziraphale’s chair.

There was an answering clatter and a thump, as if the noise he’d just made had started a chain reaction, causing something to fall elsewhere in the flat. Someone was here. For a moment, he feared a retribution from Hell, but Aziraphale’s terrible chair, ugly as it was, couldn’t be an ill omen. Also, his pillows smelled of sugar cookies. 

The angel had only ever stayed with him once, the night after the world didn’t end. But that was yesterday, wasn’t it? 

They’d stood up to Heaven and Hell, hadn’t they? Unless that had been a dream and the worst was still to come. 

What day was it? Crowley looked for his mobile, but it wasn’t on the nightstand. He could have sworn he’d left it right there. No mobile, but there was a chair was in his bedroom, instead.

Crowley strode out into the flat to figure out what was going on.

He smelled coffee and flowers as he headed down the hall toward the dining room. As soon as he saw Aziraphale’s pale shape, Crowley said loudly, “What on Earth… Why is there a… You.” 

Aziraphale straightened from where he’d been leaning over the table and faced Crowley with eyes wide and a coffee pot held up between them. 

“I’m sorry.” The angel said simply. 

“What for?” Crowley snapped back, unable to formulate any thoughts besides questions. And then he took in the whole scene. 

Aziraphale was half-dressed. That was to say, he wore a fluffy white dressing gown, that hung open a little, showing a slice of his chest. 

The table was covered with food, place settings, and cups of both tea and coffee. And Aziraphale was barefoot.

A bouquet of flowers in a chintzy porcelain vase and several other objects were arranged at the far end of the table. Aziraphale’s hair was tousled. 

“A lot.” Aziraphale answered, and Crowley had no idea what the angel could be responding to. “Firstly, the chair that I’m afraid you weren’t expecting. Did you stub your poor toesies?”

Crowley scowled at this, on principle. He was very confused. Somehow, his angry grimace didn’t have the desired effect. Aziraphale set down the coffee pot and glided toward him. Standing very near, he looked into Crowley’s face and smiled. In the warmth of that smile, Crowley felt suddenly surrounded, held, supported and subsumed. 

“I’m ever so glad that you’re awake.”

The angel was so close, so tousled, so happy. Something was different, and Crowey’s voice was always the last of him to catch up. “Whu-?” he managed.

“Bit of a Sleeping Beauty, you are. If I’d known that was the trick, I’d have tried it sooner. At the turn of the century, even!”

“Wha-?” Aziraphale’s face was so open, like he wasn’t withholding anything. Nothing in the way. Where there should have been boundaries, walls, the bars of their cages…

“Don’t worry, dear. Everything’s fine. I mean… I think it’s fine. You might not. You might be quite angry, actually. But I’ll apologize for the rest as we go along. And, well, the point is, that there’s nothing for you to worry-“

“Angel, what-“ Crowley was going to get a question out, if it killed him.

“I stayed to look after-”

“… are you wearing?”

Success! Crowley thought triumphantly. Take that! 

“Oh.” Aziraphale murmured and looked down at himself. He blushed prettily, and pulled the robe closed with one hand. “Well, I…” Then the angel gave a shy giggle. He giggled! Crowley wobbled and grabbed the back of one of the stone chairs for support. “I suppose, it’s attire for inside the home. Isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Crowley’s arched eyebrow communicated oceans of evidence that this was _not_ how Aziraphale dressed, even in his own home.

“Well, I thought it was. Also, we match!” Aziraphale moved the draping fabric of his robe, and thank Someone, he was wearing white silk PJ bottoms under there that looked a lot like Crowley’s own. Aziraphale continued babbling warmly. “You keep your flat rather cold, dear. I can’t think why, being a serpent and all. But then again, you never were one to take very good care of yourself. I think I shall have to do something about that.” That seemed to give him an idea. “In fact! Poor dear, you just woke up, and you’re chilly and confused.” The angel snapped his fingers, and a very fluffy black dressing gown appeared over Crowley’s bare torso. 

Aziraphale took the sleeve between his fingers and drew Crowley toward the table. He put a steaming mug of coffee in his hands and pulled out one of the chairs. When Crowley sat down reflexively, he expected the bracing effect of the cold, granite seat. Instead, a plump, ergonomic cushion received his backside.

Crowley took a sip, of the admittedly very good coffee, and contemplated his next question. 

Placing the mug decidedly back on the table, he asked, “Angel, where’s my phone?”

Aziraphale fished into the pocket of his robe and withdrew Crowley’s mobile. He handed it to him with a sheepish smile. “I answered your calls.” He explained.

Crowley snatched it and examined the date. It was more than two weeks later than he’d expected. Shit, he’d missed…

“Oh, Satan!” Crowley exclaimed, and his heart sunk. “Dinner!”

“Yes, dear. That was actually a while ago, now. I’d never been stood up for a date before. New experience for me. I went all jilted-lover for about five minutes.”

The demon’s mind was stuck several words back, “Date?” 

“Well, can’t be stood up for one if you’ve never had one, I suppose.” Aziraphale mused. “But there’s a first time for everything. Anyway, then I came over, and I didn’t leave.”

Crowley shook his head to clear it. Something didn’t make sense. “Wait…” No, scratch that, nothing made sense. “Wait. I don’t…”

“Take your time, dear.” Aziraphale gave him a reassuring little smile and inspected the obscene diversity of baked goods piled before them. He fetched out a plain croissant for Crowley and a chocolate one for himself. 

Crowley was mortified to have missed their dinner. Date? Dinner date? He’d planned to say things. “I think… I need to apologize.” He began.

“Nonsense! Don’t forget, I wore your body for a day. I know full well how strung out you were.”

“I, um.” That was an unsettling thought. What else did Aziraphale know? “I was… rude.”

Aziraphale wiped a bit of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “Oh no! A rude demon. Oh, my delicate sensibilities, whatever shall I do?”

“Hey!” Crowley wasn’t sure what he was objecting to. Aziraphale was being flippant, tripping circles around him while he stumbled.

“You think I don’t know that my counterpart for 6000 years, my heart’s eternal companion, is a grumpy bugger? With a sleeping problem, and horrible taste in furniture?” He gestured to the granite table and chairs. “Humanity _has_ advanced beyond using rocks to sit upon, my dear.” 

Crowley’s brain was misfiring, and his teeth suddenly felt glued together, but he managed to put a threatening finger into the angel’s face, first to point, then to shush. Aziraphale went cross-eyed momentarily looking at the tip of his finger.

There was a long silence in which the demon just sort-of scowled.

“You had something to say?” Aziraphale prompted.

Crowley felt that the first finger was falling down on the job, so he called in reinforcements from the other hand. Now, two fingers pointed directly at Aziraphale. That felt a little better, like he had the angel in his sights, like he could pin him down and make him stop talking. 

Aziraphale waited patiently while the two pointer-fingers moved a little in a scolding motion, that said “I’m not done with you, you bastard. Just let me catch up.” Crowley took the opportunity to glance at the table. 

Beyond the pastries, he saw several impossible, mortifying things that should not be out in the light of day. No help there. Now, he felt like someone had kicked him in the gut, and the breath left him. With a snap, he summoned his glasses into place. 

Aziraphale followed the direction of his gaze. “One thing at a time, I think!” The angel interrupted Crowley’s train of thought and tossed a spare napkin over the pile of unmentionables. It didn’t hide the books or the box completely. “You wanted to apologize. Let’s go back to that. Did you have a statement ready?”

“I’m sorry I left last night!” Crowley blurted out, and amazingly, it was a complete sentence, so he kept going. “You wanted me to… well… honestly, I don’t know _what_ you want. And I… I left. I keep doing that. Leaving. Only, last night was different.”

It clearly wasn’t “last night” anymore, but Aziraphale didn’t correct him. “Because you don’t know what-”

“No idea!”

The angel nodded, sagely. “That is completely understandable. Would you believe, I felt the same way? Except that you have every right to be confused, in the light of my abominable behavior. My only excuse for not knowing what _you_ want, seems to be that I am an idiot.”

Crowley appeared to be considering this, while his thoughts skittered away from any possible meaning. Something was different. Something he didn’t understand yet. Aziraphale’s words rattled around in his brain, without connecting. 

The sensation, though… If he concentrated, he could sense that a barrier was down. Some wall that Crowley had been pushing against, railing against, and then just sort of leaning on, _literally forever_ , had evaporated suddenly. Now, he found he couldn’t stay upright without it. 

What had it been for, anyway? Why had there been a wall there in the first place? To keep them safe, he’d thought. Why was it gone? Did that mean they weren’t safe? But Aziraphale didn’t seem scared, and he was like a canary in a mine shaft, that one. The only time the angel ever seemed this at ease…

“Are you drunk?” Crowley demanded suddenly.

“What?” Aziraphale was indignant.

“You’re acting weird. Broke in here, and pilfered my alcohol, did you?”

“No, dear. Well, a bit.” He admitted. “I did a lot worse than that, actually. There’s something I need to show you.”

“N-n-n-n-no.” Crowley tried to back away from the half-hidden crime scene at the end of the table.

“Quite right. This first.” Aziraphale picked something up and cradled it his hands. He drew a deep breath. “In my desk at the shop… you always chide me for what a mess I keep it…” He shook himself and stared again. “Well, beneath the clever deterrent of chaos, there’s a drawer where I hide things. The drawer has a false bottom. You know the kind?” He looked up at Crowley waiting for some kind of confirmation, but the demon kept his face placid, giving away nothing. “Well. I keep things in there that I didn’t want Heaven to find. Or you to find. Or… me.” He seemed to crumble in on himself and looked down. He was holding a circle of flowers: a bright green hazel branch covered with catkins, wrapped around with sprays of purple heather and dotted with clover and daisies. His thumb was gently petting the tiny purple blossoms. He went on. “Things I don’t want _me_ to find, because I can’t be trusted. But I can’t let it go. And I couldn’t let myself want. Because I’d ruin everything. But sometimes I just need to remember.” His eyes spilled over, and the angel seemed to be genuinely surprised as he wiped the tears from his chin. 

His words resonated with Crowley, and a light started to dawn at the edges of his consciousness. _Can’t let myself want. Can’t break everything. Can’t let it go._ Yes. Exactly that.

“What is that, Aziraphale?” He indicated the crown of flowers.

“It’s yours! From May-day a long, long time ago. When I was happy, for a little while.” The tears kept falling, and he gave an unbecomingly loud sniff.

“Ireland?” Crowley asked, realization dawning. “But that had to be…” He puzzled through eons of math.

“Fifth century, or thereabouts.” Aziraphale agreed. “We pretended that we weren’t us, remember? I said, ‘what if there wasn’t sin’. And you said ‘what if there weren’t sides’. And the people thought we were nature spirits or something. That night, they gave you these flowers to wear. I- I’d never seen anything so beautiful, in all creation… as you at your ease.” He kept staring determinedly down at his lap. “But Patrick, that son-of-a-bitch, and suddenly we were back to being adversaries. Kicked you out! And believe me, I get it. I see the pattern; I do! I was so angry. You know, I tried going back once, but my side had made such a mess of the place. And, I couldn’t bear to be there without you.”

“You kept it, all this time?”

Aziraphale looked up, straight into Crowley’s glasses, and his aim was sure: “This shall not fade.”


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley jumped like a live wire, suddenly getting it, and looking immediately for an escape-route. Aziraphale interrupted his flight, by placing the ancient flowers directly into his lap. Crowley found, with dismay, that he couldn’t jump up and start blathering or overturning chairs or running away or turning into a snake because he was now entrusted with holding the precious keepsake. 

Aziraphale moved quickly, uncovering the rest of the objects and laying them out between the plates and pastries.

“I thought we’d be doomed to play those roles till the very end of the world,” he said drawing Chaucer and Shakespeare over within Crowley’s reach. “All these lovely evenings, with my mortal enemy.” He indicated the stack of playbills. “And then suddenly, we’re on our own side. Finally!” He boldly threw open the wooden box. “And instead of talking about it, you went off to sleep, you great oaf!” He gestured, exasperated, with his own feather, before dropping it upright in Crowley’s empty juice glass. “So, what choice did I have?” He pushed the platter of treats aside, so there would be more room. “You would have done the same.” He fanned the letters and pictures out on the table. “In fact, maybe I’ll leave you alone in my shop sometime, and you can uncover… oh, I don’t know… maybe my collection of Victorian erotica.” He stood the angel Christmas tree decoration in the middle of the table next to the flower vase. “Fair’s fair, after all.” 

Crowley stared at the paper angel, it’s blank little-bobble head staring back at him, accusing him. He felt certain that he was going to discorporate on the spot. If the little toy angel could have smote him, he was sure it would have. That might have been preferable.

Aziraphale and Crowley considered the evidence before them, and they both looked for all the world like they were expecting retribution to fall at any moment. Aziraphale hazarded a side-long glance. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley. It was wrong of me to violate your privacy. Still, I must say, I’m relieved that everything is out in the open. I hope you’ll feel the same, in time. Whatever happens next, is up to you. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all, you know. I wouldn’t want to presume…”

 _Presume?_ “Er… Ngk.” Crowley swallowed, trying to regain control of his vocal cords. Finally, he managed, “What do you _think_ it means, angel?”

“I…” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “I wouldn’t know.”

Crowley sighed in wordless exasperation. If Aziraphale was going to uncover every hidden sin, the least he could do to was spare Crowley the humiliation of saying it out loud. The demon made a prompting gesture, encouraging the angel to step up and just say it.

Aziraphale shook his head, resolute. In his mind, he’d already overstepped hugely and would go no further.

Crowley shrugged, helplessly and laid the flower crown on the table with the other revelations. He wasn’t equipped for this. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his hollow cheeks, twisting his bottom lip between his fingers, as his eyes roamed over the table. In sudden decision, he grabbed for the book of sonnets. Flipping it open, he quickly found the one what he wanted, marked with a pressed flower. Crowley paused and touched the dry petals, so dark they were almost black. “You and Warlock…” he muttered to himself as he removed the rose from the book. 

Then, remembering his purpose, Crowley slapped the sonnets open with his palm and pushed it aggressively across the table before Aziraphale.

The angel took the book with shaking hands and read the poem there.

_#29_

_When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,  
_ _I all alone beweep my outcast state,  
_ _And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,  
_ _And look upon myself and curse my fate,  
_ _Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,  
_ _Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,  
_ _Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,  
_ _With what I most enjoy contented least;  
_ _Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
_ _Haply I think on thee, and then my state,  
_ _(Like to the lark at break of day arising  
_ _From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;_  
 _For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings  
_ _That then I scorn to change my state with kings._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and brought his hands to his lips, as if in prayer. “Yes. I see,” he said quietly. “My dear, I feel the same.” 

“Well. Then.” Crowley nodded and then continued nodding as if on auto-pilot, agreeing agreeably with whatever revelation was still playing out in the silence. He poured himself more coffee, just to have something to do with his hands.

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea. Why did it feel like there was still something else on the way? “I…” Aziraphale steeled himself, and then dove in. “While we’re on the subject, and in the spirit of getting it all out in the open, of course… Is there, perhaps, something else you mean? Something more… human?”

“Christ, angel! I don’t know!” Crowley sputtered, turning colors. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t wondered… if that’s even… for us. But, really, what’s _more_ than that?” Crowley stabbed his finger down on sonnet #29.

“Quite.” Aziraphale felt relieved and disappointed in equal measure. “Well, in that case, would you mind explaining to me what is meant by that audacious statute in your hallway?”

 _“_ Oh, come on, angel! It’s a joke! See, one of them is definitely you, and-“

“A joke? You expect me to believe-”

“Look,” Crowley found his footing in the familiar contention, “What do you think I could possibly mean by it?” 

Aziraphale raised his voice too, in exasperation. “I certainly don’t know!”

“Well, neither do I!” Crowley tossed an elegant hand skyward.

“Don’t look at me. I’m an angel! I couldn’t possibly have any… expectations!”

“Hey, you can’t just assume, just because I’m a demon… Besides, you’re the collector of Victorian porn, and _you_ brought it up!”

They stared at each other, poised in that familiar challenge. They were each other’s equals in sparing, and also apparently equal in their innocence and awkwardness. Aziraphale pressed his lips together to smother his grin.

Without the pushback of a retort from Aziraphale, Crowley faltered. “Hey, don’t back out now, angel. I’m serious about this!”

“I know you are, dear.” Aziraphale began to sputter. “Very intimidating.” He covered his mouth to catch the laughter as it bubbled up.

Crowley tried to look frustrated for a few more seconds, before the angel’s giggles were too much for him, and he cracked a smile. Aziraphale let loose then, shaking in his chair. Crowley joined him in the tide of humor. They laughed at each other, until tears ran down their faces. 

“We’re ridiculous!” Aziraphale managed, finally. “But the world didn’t end, so now we’ve got time. What do you say we just enjoy having things a bit more out in the open, and then we’ll see.”

“Exactly!” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale’s chest, as if he’d proven his point. 

The angel laid his hand palm up on the table, between their plates. 

Crowley looked down at it, and then glanced around the vicinity of the table, to make sure there wasn’t some other object Aziraphale was requesting. The angel tutted, a tiny chiding sound, and Crowley got the hint. He laid his hand in Aziraphale’s, and something clicked into place. 

All their apprehension about the future, began to dissolve. They both knew, somehow, that whatever was coming would be quite easy. 

How did they know that?

The magnetic force that had always pushed them apart, had suddenly flipped poles, and now it drew them together. Crowley felt the seat shifting underneath him, and two severe, high backed dining room chairs became one comfy love seat. “Hey, will you quit messing with my furniture!” But he was scooching toward Aziraphale as he said it. 

“It’s not furniture, dear. I believe it’s called masochism.”

“Hmph,” Crowley tucked his body back against the angel’s warmth. There was no boundary anymore. They could be _close_. They could be as close as they wanted, and it was easy. Aziraphale brought their linked hands over the demon’s shoulder, and held them against his chest. 

Crowley removed his glasses, mumbling “not really attire for the home,” and put them in the pocket of his new robe. Aziraphale reached for the circlet of flowers and placed it back where it belonged, a crown on the demon’s fiery hair. 

Crowley stretched out his free hand but found he couldn’t quite reach without dislodging himself. He did not want to dislodge himself.

Aziraphale passed him his plate. “Glad to see you might eat _something_ for your blood sugar, after two whole weeks!” Crowley finally began nibbling at the croissant.

“What else did I miss?” the demon asked conversationally as he melted a little further into his Aziraphale-backed seat.

“Well, let’s see. Your plants miss you terribly! I did my best, but I’m afraid I’m a poor substitute for your loving care.”

“What?!” Crowley craned his neck to glare at him, but the angle was awkward.

“Especially Elizabeth. She got all dressed up, with no one to appreciate her. But I told her-“

“Elizabeth?!” He exclaimed in the most appalled voice he could muster.

“The one with white flowers.” Aziraphale explained. “Quite lonely. Without you, I mean. I’m not sure what you call her, but I had to name her something, didn’t I?”

“Which one’s got flowers?” he sputtered. “None of them have flowers!”

“Oh, then you’ll be so proud!” the angel crooned. “Want me to show you?” He gestured vaguely to the plant room with the remnants of his eclair.

“Nope.” Crowley enunciated and slithered determinedly down in the love seat until he was practically laying on Aziraphale’s lap. “But later, we are going to have to have a TALK!”

Aziraphale smiled and gave Crowley a little pat. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll really appreciate that.”

“Not the plants! You meddling little… I meant you! ”

Aziraphale tsked at this half-hearted scolding. Not that he had a clue what Crowley was grousing about, but he felt at home on familiar conversational ground. 

He played his high card: “Also, our Godson called! He wanted to tell you that he passed his test. Fractions was it? He’s a dear boy. He asked to come stay with us.”

“Well, why not? You seem to have moved in! The more the merrier. Wait a minute, _with_ _us?_ Angel, you didn’t tell him we – that we were…?”

“Heavens, no! But as you’ve often remarked, humans are rather intuitive.” Aziraphale was thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I _am_ rather glad that I held my ground about the whole murdering him idea.”

Crowley froze, the croissant half-way to his mouth, and looked appropriately horrified. “Ok,” he conceded. “That’s definitely a point in your favor. A big one.”

Aziraphale nodded once, satisfied, and reached for the quiche. “Well, this day-after-the-Apocalypse-brunch is a point for you, demon!”

They nibbled their very nice baked goods for a while in silence.

When he spoke again, Crowley’s voice was quiet. “I’m glad you stayed. And that you’re a nosy bastard.”

Aziraphale pressed a strong hand flat against Crowley’s chest, holding him very tight. “I’m clearly incapable of leaving you alone at this point.” 

“Good,” the demon answered simply. “Don’t.” 

**Author's Note:**

> All my gratitude goes to my Good Omens coven who support and encourage this drivel.  
> My angel, [WanderingBard3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingbard3)  
> [Elf_on_the_Shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_on_the_shelf)  
> and [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose) (who allowed me to steal straight from her wonderful "[A Christmas Carol Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748195)" and "[I have an aungel which that loveth me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21476971)".)
> 
> I am fed by your comments and the beautiful community we are building. Please drop me a line!


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